


Monster Boyfriends

by sunflowerprince



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, Monster Boyfriends, just a collection of nice things because they deserve it, the only betta I ever had was a fish, we're having a good time here or else
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24871888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerprince/pseuds/sunflowerprince
Summary: That's it folks that's the plot.Just a collection of one-shots, majority fluff, because Martin and Jon deserve to have a nice time for once.Lonely!Martin and our good ol Spookums Jon.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48





	1. A Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hello fam! Honestly I am a tiny person with big feelings and I binged this podcast in under two months and! My heart is three sizes bigger but I am not okay! So this is my little vault of feel good content because I finally took off my clown makeup thinking we were gonna have a stable good time at any point in this series. So please enjoy these spooky nerds in love.

The demon ambushed him as he was thumbing through statements, skittering toward him on spindly legs, too many legs. He retracted his hand in the nick of time, papers fluttering to the floor in a mad scramble.

“MARTIN.”

There was a clattering noise from the other end of the flat. Martin came rushing into the room.

“What is it, Jon, what’s wrong?”

“There is an _abomination_ on my desk.” 

“A wha--?” Martin’s voice cut off as his gaze followed Jon’s trembling finger.

He looked at the creature, then back to Jon. 

“ _Really_ Jon? That’s a very rude way to refer to a guest.”

Jon made a choking noise. “That is not a _guest_ Martin we will not be offering it _tea_ it is an _invader_ , a foul agent of chaos, and it is on _my work, Martin, get it out_!”

Martin heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I will never understand how you can face down literal monstrosities, unknowable terrors, and just really mean people with arcane powers, and you can’t handle a _spider_.”

Jon leveled a glare at him. “I don’t respect them, they have too many eyes and too many legs and they have no concept of personal boundaries. And look at it, scuttling along my statements, Martin. It’s very unprofessional.” 

Martin let out a huff of exasperated laughter as he turned to leave the room.

“Hold on, where are you going?”

“To get a tupperware.”

Jon practically buzzed in place, his foot tapping nervously until Martin returned. His boyfriend leaned gingerly over the desk, softly, softly, lowering the small plastic tub over the creature.

“Alright, then, little fella, I apologize on Jon’s behalf, he has absolutely no manners. I’m afraid I must evict you, you aren’t paying rent and you’re making my boyfriend quite anxious. I’ll find you a nice bush, eh? A right mansion of your own.” Martin practically cooed as he began the delicate dance of lifting the tub just enough to allow the paper to wedge under, coaxing the spider to climb onto the paper.

“I cannot stand that you sweet-talk them.”

“Jealous, love?” Martin glanced up from under his curls, a sly smile playing across his lips. “Don’t worry, you’re next in line.”

Jon scoffed, cheeks warming slightly, which made him determined to frown twice as hard. 

“You know, you should come say ‘hi,’ Jon.”

“Absolutely not. Whatever for?”

“I think it might be healing.” 

“This repulsive creature and I do not need to _re-conciliate_ , Martin.” 

“Look at it, Jon. Just doing little donuts in its little dome. Nothing scary, here. It’s just bumbling about.” Martin kept his gaze on the little interloper, looking on fondly. “Did you know some spiders have little furred toes, Jon? They’re like cats, with little paws.”

“The Admiral would be scandalized at the comparison.” Jon said, dry as kindling.

“Oh, please, Jon. Humor me. I know you’ll never see them as adorable like I do—but really how could you not with their silly little legs they don’t need that many! And oh, they’d need like four pairs of glasses isn’t that ridiculous!”

“For god’s sake, Martin.” Jon clutched the bridge of his nose, jostling his reading glasses. “If I peek at the thing will you please just toss it out already?”

“Pinkie promise.” 

Jon let out a breath and peered down at the tupperware, refusing to draw more than a couple steps closer. The idea that it was looking back made him about as uneasy as the Beholding, imagining several tiny images of himself reflected in its nebulous, pitch dark eyes. 

“Well, look at you.” He said, somewhat smugly. “That’s right, in little spider jail where you belong. If it was up to me, you’d be getting the death penalty, but Martin here has the biggest, softest heart in the whole wide world and I couldn’t stand to make him unhappy.” 

“Oh, he thinks I have a big heart.” Martin teased. After such a long time of Jon giving him hell, he loved to play up every syrupy moment. He was not the avenging sort, but if pressed, he would say the best revenge he could possibly have was the flush in Jon’s cheeks whenever he said something endearing. 

“The biggest.” Jon agreed flatly. 

The spider skittered and he leaped back several steps.

“Felt great, very healing, now _get it out_.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t tease. I am very proud of you, Jon.” Martin said as he obligingly scooped the spider in its prison (Martin would call it a taxi) and made for the door. “Open, please.”

Jon opened the door wide, then stepped further back into the safety of the flat, far from the releasing zone. “Put it on the neighbor’s plants.”

Martin tsked, walking out into the corridor and out of sight.

He returned moments later, paper and plastic hanging loosely in his hand.

“The deed is done.” He said solemnly, betrayed by a spark of mischief and a tick at the corner of his mouth. 

“My hero.” Jon said wryly. He began picking up his scattered papers, shuffling them into order and replacing them on his desk. “You better put that in your side of the cupboards.”

“I always do, love.” 

Jon refused to eat from a container once it had been used as a bug mobile. Martin had no qualms—“nothing a little soap can’t fix, clean is clean”—but all Jon could think of was the ghost of spindly limbs creeping about. So there was Martin’s tupperware, and Jon’s tupperware, and _their_ tupperware.

It was getting to be quite expensive. 

But Martin wouldn’t let the exterminators come round. 

The biggest, softest heart in the whole wide world. Jon supposed that was worth enduring a few nefarious creatures. So long as he didn’t have to touch them.

“Well, if you’re done scowling, it’s time for supper. I made falafel. If you’re a good monster, you can have a statement for dessert.”

Jon didn’t want to smile. He wanted to frown, mayhap grimace, at all the saccharine nonsense that spilled out of Martin at any given moment. But the truth was, he couldn’t help himself. He lapped it up. 

“Coming, dearheart.”


	2. Thermodynamics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first night in the cabin. 
> 
> In which Jon and Martin discuss their relationship for the first time.
> 
> Bumbling queers, one bed? We love to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not identify as ace, so please forgive me if my rendering of Jon's perspective is not believable. I endeavor, as always, to do better. The part about him potentially liking physical contact for Martin's benefit in an emotional capacity and not physical one is based on my own experiences of not particularly benefiting from a kind of physical contact but liking it as a form of affection to give someone else.
> 
> This is my take on how the first night in the cabin played out, when the adrenaline of escaping the Lonely and the Archives wore off.
> 
> AKA: the calm before the apocalypse, as it were.

“It’s just tea.” He was eye level with the brew, staring into it like he was assessing a sea creature with a particularly interesting color pattern. It was the first night in Daisy’s safehouse, his feet cold and bare against the wood floor, and he was paying a truly religious amount of attention to the mug in front of him.

“Yes, very astute Jon. I see why you were chosen to be the head archivist. Your prowess in deduction.” While the separation had certainly destroyed Martin in many ways, it had also exfoliated away the lack of confidence in himself that tricked others into assuming he was less than he was. It also meant he was confident enough to rib Jon. Often.

Jon rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, of course, but I watched you prepare it start to finish. You didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. You didn’t do anything special. But it tastes better than any other tea.”

“I would tell you something about it being made with love, but it’s really just all in the ratios, Jon. And trial and error to find everyone’s individual ratios. I figured yours out after a few months.”

Jon glanced up over the brim of the mug.

“You spent all that time to figure out my perfect cuppa?” 

“Of course.” Martin scoffed. “I have a title to defend.”

“How, um, how d’you take your tea? What are your…ratios?” 

“Oh. I like it quite strong, with just a little honey. Occasionally I’ll go wild and have one of those dessert teas, you know, the ones that sound like wallpapers. ‘ _Strawberry Dreamland_.’ ‘ _Lullaby Medley_.’ Those type.” 

Jon nodded intently. He would never be a, well, _Martin_ , when it came to tea, but he could do this. He could learn _one_ ratio. 

“Well, I’m knackered. If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to get dressed down.” Martin rose to his full height, stretching his arms overhead. He exited the small kitchen, ambling off in the direction of the bathroom.

Jon shifted from foot to foot, finally gathering up his tea and retreating to the ratty sofa in the small living area.

Once Martin was back, in the same shirt and some truly unfairly endearing flannel bottoms, he quickly ducked by and made his way to the bedroom. He unfurled his favorite sweater from the bottom of his duffle, an ancient, floral thing riddled with holes and loose spots. He pulled it on quickly, reluctant to spend any more time exposed to the chill air of the cabin. He discarded his trousers and pants and pulled on a fresh pair of boxers, hesitating, hesitating, before deciding not to put anything on top. In their rush to leave the city, he hadn’t considered pyjama bottoms, and he didn’t fancy sleeping in his stiff jeans.

He squared his shoulders with purpose as he went back into the living room, refusing to cower in the face of his nerves. He was acutely aware of how exposed he was, with his threadbare sweater hitting him mid-thigh, and his pants being, well, pants. He tried to drown out the little pinpoints of anxiety pinging around in his brain as he beelined for the sofa and the promise of Daisy’s ridiculous wolf-print blanket. What if Martin thought he was shabby? What if he had misread the situation and Martin felt uncomfortable with his disregard of polite clothing in the company of others? What if he took one look at his knobby knees and—

Martin sucked in a breath. Jon fought the urge to curl in on himself.

“I’m sorry, is this—too informal? I should have asked before—”

“Look at you in your bedclothes! You’re even more adorable than I’ve ever imagined!” The other man blushed slightly as his own words registered. “Not that I—I haven’t imagined you _much_ , mind you, that would be—weird, and rude, and—” He lapsed into silence.

“So this is fine, then?”

“Yes, of course.” Martin patted the space on the sofa beside him and Jon obliged, hovering for a moment before settling down close enough to touch. Their thighs brushed each other. Jon hadn’t been this close to someone else—on purpose—in a very long time. Not since what was truly a dismal failure of a courtship post-Georgie. 

Martin’s hand hovered over Jon’s own, hesitating. “Is it—am I allowed to hold your hand? I know you’re a little—ah, touch averse. Or at least you seem to be.”

Suddenly afraid he was being frigid, Jon turned his palm up, inviting. “Yes, it’s—it’s perfectly acceptable.” 

“So about the sleeping, thing, it seems rather—unavoidable—but I’m sure you’ve noticed there is only one bed.” Martin coughed a little. “Are you okay with—I mean, I’m totally fine with taking the couch.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “Martin, you can’t fit on the couch.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“If anyone were to sleep on the couch it would be me. I’m rather compact if you haven’t noticed.”

“I’d say ‘streamlined.’”

“I’m not a _car_.”

“Certainly some kind of model.”

“Are you…are you _flirting_ with me?” Jon asked, bewildered. 

“Oh, should I stop?” Martin suddenly looked nervous. “It seemed—I mean I know things were very, very charged since the Lonely, all adrenaline, if I—if I got the wrong idea, I’m so sorry.” He began to retreat a little on the sofa, offering space.

Jon stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “No, no, stay. You got the exact right idea. I uh, would be honored if—I mean if it’s agreeable, I’d like to explore this, uh, development.”

“Jonathan Sims, are you asking me to go steady?” A wry smile ticked up at the corner of Martin’s mouth.

“Well you’ve certainly gotten a lot more cheeky as of late.” He grumbled.

Martin’s smile broke into a full-blown grin. “Why, yes, Jon, I’ll go out with you, but only since you asked so politely.” 

“About our ah—sleeping situation. I would be amenable to us sharing the bed. It makes logistic sense.”

“Well, don’t sound so eager, Jon.”

“I just—I think—it’s probably time, I should let you know—so no one’s under any illusions—since we’re t-together, now.”

“Just say whatever you’re saying, Jon.”

He took a steeling breath. Somehow this was almost more stressful than facing a vengeful avatar. “I’m not interested in sex.” He said in a rush. “It’s just not—it doesn’t do anything for me and I’d—rather not. I’ve never been and never will be.”

“Oh. Alright.”

“I know this might—change—things for you, and I understand if you, reconsider.” Jon stumbled through. And he would understand, but god it would hurt.

“I said alright, Jon.”

“Is it—are you sure? I know it’s a, uh, feature in most relationships.”

“I’m dating you, Jon, not your cock.”

They both blushed furiously.

“Okay, poor choice of words, maybe, but I stand by the sentiment. It doesn’t change my mind about you just because you’re ace. And not to up the ante in vulgarity, but I have means to uh, satisfy that need without your participation.” 

Jon’s blush deepened.

“Oh. Quite.” 

“So about the touch-averse thing…?” Martin asked. “I’m sure your boundaries will develop over time, which is fine, I’d just like to know where they’re at now. I’m a very touchy person and I can get enthusiastic in the moment and only think afterward.”

“Oh! That’s—that’s rather thoughtful of you. I’ve not had the occasion to think of it recently, really. Well with my aforementioned preferences, I don’t want to be touched below the belt on most occasions. Most other things are fair game. If I seem a bit…averse, it might be that I’m just not used to being touched.”

“Alright, just let me know as we go, then. How do you feel about kissing? Like, nonsexual kissing. Pecks on the lips and cheek and such.”

“Hmm. Why don’t we give it a try?” Jon hadn’t kissed anyone in a very long time. Georgie was a lesson in his aversion to tongue. Clay was a lesson in how boring it got very quickly. He found in passing he rather liked it, it made him warm in an affectionate way, though it certainly never gave him any sexual charge. 

“Oh. Right. Right out the gate, then, yeah?” Martin’s hands wrung. He leaned forward, adjusting to Jon’s height.

Jon accommodated accordingly, meeting Martin halfway. They just kind of…stared at each other for a moment. 

“This isn’t very romantic, is it?” Jon said. “I’m sorry it’s so clinical, I’m sure this isn’t how you envisioned—” He was silenced by the pressure of Martin’s lips on his. He let out an embarrassing squeak of surprise before leaning into the contact. He didn’t quite know what to do with his hands, so he placed them unsteadily on Martin’s waist and the nape of his neck, deepening the kiss cautiously. Martin moved to cup his cheek delicately and Jon felt a rush of warmth from head to toe. Yes, this was actively pleasant. Enjoyable, even.

They broke apart, and he took satisfaction in Martin’s unsteady look and uneven breathing.

“Good?” Martin asked.

“Good.” Jon nodded decisively. “We can do that again, when you’d like.” 

“I imagine I will like it quite a bit and frequently.” Martin tilted his head. “Since you don’t get caught up in that sort of thing, I imagine it’s unlikely that you’d like the uh, more ardent forms of kissing? Tongue and biting and generally snogging?”

Jon nodded again. “I might…allow it, for your benefit. But I’d hardly like it to be a whole recreational activity.” He smiled slightly. Once they’d gotten over that one revelation, it was surprisingly easy to talk to Martin. Like they were discussing their favorite book or some other unloaded topic. “Oh, uh, no tongue, definitively.” He said as an afterthought.

“No tongue.” Martin nodded gravely. “I’m not much for it, anyways. Makes me feel like eels fighting for dominance. Not a very sexy image.”

Jon laughed. “I’m glad to hear it’s not just me.”

He tentatively rested a hand on Martin’s waist, gauging his expression as he placed his thumb where his shirt had rucked up when he moved. Now that they’d established touch would not cause either of them to spontaneously combust or extinct the species, he could no longer ignore the heat radiating from Martin. He slid his fingers under his shirt, dragging them upward, stopping at the hitch in Martin’s breath. He withdrew his hand quickly, but his wrist was caught before he moved further away.

“Not bad. Just cold.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t admit that was kind of the point, a bit embarrassed by attempting to thieve the warmth.

“It’s fine. Don’t stop.” 

He obliged, testing his fingers on the flesh of the other man’s waist, running his thumb across his marvelously soft stomach. He tilted his head, rapt, as he glanced up and watched Martin’s eyes flutter. Jon sighed, content, burying his hands between his shirt and skin.

“How are you so warm?” He asked.

Martin patted his stomach lightly. “I am well equipped to survive the winter.”

Jon chuckled. “I think I would perish, then.”

“You do run concerningly cold. Like a corpse. Sorry.” Martin shuddered, clearly not having thought his words through. Jon thought it was a good quality, mostly. Refreshing, that he spoke his mind. Initially it had irritated him to no end, back when he was rather a hall of fame prick to him. He considered it tactless, drivel, the babble of a lack of discipline. Now it was a point of envy. He wished he could be so transparent. He himself was deliberate to the point of cutting his true feelings at the knees.

He absentmindedly played with the hem of Martin’s shirt while he pondered, running his thumb under his waistband, where there was a pocket of warmth.

Martin coughed lightly.

“Oh?” Jon asked, coming back to the world outside his head.

“It’s just—I’m a little more excited than I’d like to be.”

Jon glanced down, brows knit. His eyebrows ticked up in surprise.

“Oh, hello.” He said. He hadn’t noticed Martin gaining an erection. He tilted his head. “Did I—did I do something sensual?”

Martin let out a sharp huff of laughter.

“Not necessarily. But anything from you feels a little like lightning.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound good.”

“It is the opposite of unpleasant. Just…trust me on it.”

“I could, I, ah, should help you with that, seeing as it’s my fault.” He grimaced. Strangely, he felt a little proud. The idea of bringing someone comfort and pleasure through his touch brought him a kind of pleasure, too. Not physical but visceral all the same. On the other hand, how did other people go about their lives like that, so charged and led by their bodies? It seemed so overwhelming and…inconvenient. 

He glanced back at Martin, shaking himself out of his thoughts. He was rather bad at that, he noted, staying present. 

Which meant he had not noticed Martin going impossibly crimson.

“That’s, uh, rather considerate of you. No need. But if you’ll, um, excuse me, I’ll, uh, go take care of this real quick.” Martin got up with a staggered movement. 

“By all means.” Jon felt his eyebrows cant up to meet his hairline. 

He watched curiously as Martin hurried out of the room, the bedroom door softly clicking behind him. He idly wondered if Martin would be thinking of him as he finished himself. He found that he liked the idea. 

It wasn’t long before he heard the tap run in the other room. He waited patiently for Martin to emerge, but the minutes ticked on. He wondered if he’d fallen asleep. He was just about to check on him when his name was being called.

“I’m uh, all done, if you’d like to come to bed.”

Jon headed for the bedroom, the wolf blanket tucked around his shoulders and trailing behind him. He cautiously opened the door.

Martin was on one side of the bed, the other with turned down covers, inviting.

“You’re still fine with this, right?” He asked, gesturing.

“Of course. What would have changed my mind?” It was a rhetorical question, more to assure Martin than anything else. He let the blanket lapse only when he was safely transferred into the bed, sheets already a bit warm in proximity to Martin. He snuggled down into the warmth like a little caterpillar. He found it impossible to resist gravitating toward Martin.

“Is this alright?” He asked, hovering above the other man’s collarbone, wanting to burrow against his chest. It was odd how comfortable he was. He tended to hold people at arm’s length, but after them stripping themselves emotionally bare in the Lonely and the aftermath, he was quite exhausted with keeping himself apart. Whatever he felt would happen if he opened up about, well, anything, whatever terrible fall out he expected—it hadn’t come to pass. And he wanted very much to trust that it would stay that way, settled and inviting.

All Martin did in response was open his arms, allowing Jon to tuck against him.

Jon sighed, pleased that his theory was right and being in Martin’s arms was a refuge of warmth. Martin rubbed his back absently, like it was the most natural thing for them to be like this. Jon leaned into the touch, humming a bit as his eyes drifted closed. Martin’s hand drifted lower, massaging his back lightly.  
Jon made what could reasonably be called a growl when Martin’s hand stopped.

“Sorry. I didn’t want to get handsy.”

“Well do it.” Jon grumbled, arching into his touch as if that would make him start up again. “You are warm and I am not and it isn’t fair.”

Martin chuckled. “You know, you’re just like a cat. A small, spitting cat. You act real tough until someone pets you.”

“I bite.” He warned.

That earned him a laugh.

“Prove it.”

And he did, nipping Martin lightly on the collarbone.

“Oh.” Martin exhaled. “So you do. You’re going to have to be careful with that.”

Jon considered. “Should I not do that, then?”

“Do it as often as you like.” He was sure he wasn’t mistaken that Martin’s voice came out a little husky. Jon settled back against his chest, smug.

“You know, I was thinking.” He began.

“A dangerous occupation, but you’ve proven that thoroughly.”

“Oh, shut up.” Jon said. “I was thinking—that next time you get turned on. I might like to help. Not out of a sense of obligation.”

“I don’t want you to do anything one-sided, Jon. I’m really okay.”

“I know, I know, and I lo—I appreciate you for it.” He blushed. He wasn’t quite ready for that one, dire situations aside. “But I find I might—enjoy it. Not physically, mind you. But I like—I like making you feel good.”

He felt Martin nod, his chin resting on the top of his head. “Noted. Thank you. How can I—what makes you feel good?”

“Pet me.” He admitted, grumbling once again. The whole ‘cat’ thing was, annoyingly, not far off the mark.

“Like this?” Martin ask, running his hand through Jon’s hair, stroking down his back, returning to brush his hair a few more times.

“Precisely.” 

“Who knew this whole time all I needed to melt Jonathan Sims’ cool exterior was to court him like the Admiral.”

Jon snorted. “Take this to the grave, Martin Blackwood.”

“No promises.”

Martin reached out and turned off the light, and they settled into an easy silence.

They turned over gradually, Martin’s hand resting on Jon’s stomach lightly. It was a good pressure, a soft weight, like a weighted blanket, steadying him.

“Y’know, I could fix your sweater, if you like.” Martin said, voice sleepy. “Make it last a bit longer.”

“I’d like that very much. My grandmother made it.”

Martin hummed, and he knew he was not long for the waking world.

They fell asleep like that, Jon’s feet warming against Martin’s shins, wrapped up together in a nest of comfort. 

He thought, maybe, this time, the laws of the universe were on his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, fair travelers <3 
> 
> If there are one shots you're particularly interested in reading, please let me know! Right now I'm going down a list, writing what I'd like to read, but I'm always open to suggestions.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Be well be safe! <3


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